


Worlds Unimagined

by Sonnenblumenbluetenblatt



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Celtic!Beelzebub, Celtic!Crowley, Celts, I’m sorry this is basically a shitpost idea that got out of hand, M/M, Mentions of Violence, Mutual Pining, Pining, Roman Republic, Roman!Aziraphale, Roman!Gabriel, Roman!Michael, a whole forest of pine trees, aka a fic that absolutely nobody wanted, but it isn’t really graphic, but probably historically inaccurate, literally in Chapter 3, rating may change though idk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-26
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:07:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21573484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sonnenblumenbluetenblatt/pseuds/Sonnenblumenbluetenblatt
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale (they’re called Ciaran and Aristaeus in this, sorry in advance) have grown up together in Rome. But now they find themselves on opposite sides in a war that will decide about their lives.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 6





	1. No Choice

**Author's Note:**

> I hope the Lord will heal this fanfic because I definitely got carried away.  
> Thanks to @catearphanatic for being an amazing beta reader! <3  
> When @catearphanatic told me that Celtiberians had this custom where best friends would make an object in two parts and then each keep half as a token of recognition (think of them as the friendship bracelets of antiquity), it immediately reminded both of us of the Ineffable Husbands. So obviously the sheer cuteness of that gesture practically forced me to write this.  
> Apologies to all the history buffs out there, this probably contains inaccuracies. I also played around with their names a bit to make seem more appropriate for the setting, and I hope that isn’t too disruptive.  
> Title from "World’s End" (Sandman Vol.8) by Neil Gaiman.

**Sometimes we can choose the paths we follow. Sometimes our choices are made for us. And sometimes we have no choice at all.**

**~ Neil Gaiman, _Season of Mists_ (Sandman Vol.4)**

**163BC, Northern Celtiberia**

“Take this.”

Ciaran looked up from the object that was on the palm of his father’s outstretched hand, up into his father’s eyes. “But… it’s yours.”

“I won’t need it anymore.” His father’s eyes pierced him. They were the colour of hazel, and he was used to seeing a fond look in them, had been for as long as he could remember. Now, they were harsh and unforgiving, like metal. Like the events of the past days.

Hesitantly, Ciaran reached for the object and took it from his father. He could see that even the act of stretching out his arm had exhausted Fearghas. The wound he had received during the last battle had cost him too much blood. It made him look pale and weak and had forced him to surrender to the Roman troops. Well, not only the wound; the rest of the tribe had not been in any condition to keep fighting either, and this was the only way to keep everybody from being slaughtered. The Celtiberian chieftain, who had always been the tallest and strongest man Ciaran knew, was now barely able to leave his sickbed, but when he did, the knowledge of what he had done crushed his shoulders and made him bow his head in shame. His hair, copper like Ciaran’s, had lost its shine and seemed so dull it didn’t even catch the reflections of the fire in the hearth like it used to do.

Ciaran wanted to say something, anything. But no words formed in his mouth, and his throat felt dry and constricted. He just tucked the two parts of the torc he had been given into his tunic and let his arms fall back to his side. Spindly arms, the arms of a ten-year-old child. Not strong enough to fight. He clenched his fists. If only he had been old enough to help defend his home! Suddenly, a shadow appeared in the doorway of the living room of the elongated stone house with the low, straw-thatched roof. A shiver ran down Ciaran’s spine; usually, he felt cosy and safe in his family’s home, but nothing was as before anymore. Words were shouted in a language that Ciaran didn’t understand. His father looked up, his eyes fierce once more when he placed his hands on Ciaran’s shoulders and drew himself up to his impressive height. A sudden wave of pride washed through Ciaran. Fearghas had to be in a lot of pain, but he did not show it. No, not his father! Instead, he stared down the soldier, with an iciness and a threat in his eyes that Ciaran would not have thought possible. The only indication of his weakness were his hands, with which he still clasped Ciaran’s shoulders to steady himself. But then he slowly lifted them.

“Go,” he said, “and never forget who you are.” Even though Fearghas tried to hide it, Ciaran could hear the tiredness and the fear in his voice. Fear not for himself, but for his son. Ciaran made a hesitant step toward the soldier who was blocking the doorway. Apparently, he was too slow; the man took a step forward into the room, carefully avoiding Fearghas’ eyes, and grabbed Ciaran’s arm to pull him away, out of the hut, the rough grip almost breaking his arm. Ciaran bit his lip, suppressing a cry of pain and fighting hard against the tears that were filling his eyes. He would not cry, not in front of this soldier or the other ones waiting with their horses in the dusk.

For the next few minutes, he felt as though in a haze. His mind couldn’t hold on to any thoughts, everything was blurry and nothing made any sense. The soldier must have lifted him on one of the horses and mounted behind him, because that’s where Ciaran found himself when he started taking in his surroundings again. He hadn’t even felt the chilly night air biting through his thin tunic, hadn’t felt the rough hands holding him in place on the back of the horse. The last familiar houses of his village started to fade away beside him, and with them the people he had known for all his life. His nose still full of the smell from the wood fire that had been burning low in his father’s house, he tried to turn around and have a last look at his home, but the soldier sitting behind him blocked his view. He wished that he could stay with his family, that this stupid war had never happened. But it had, and the choice to leave had been made for him. He had had no choice at all.

As they were riding further and further away into the night and towards the Roman camp, Ciaran resisted the urge to touch the torc under his clothes. He didn’t want to draw the Romans’ attention to it because if they took the only thing from him that reminded him of home, he didn’t think he could bear it. And there was no need to touch it: he knew it inside and out, knew the winding body of the copper snake with its tiny scales, its head at one end and the tail at the other. Knew how to separate the two parts and how to slot them back together to form a whole. Knew the way light made the snake eyes glint and look alive.

_I won’t need it anymore._ These words were now imprinted in his mind, they kept echoing in his head again and again, drowning out even the dull thumping of hooves on the ground. Ciaran knew the implications of these words, young as he was. He knew, but he didn’t let himself think about them. So he pushed them away, out of his head, and tried to erase them from his mind. Maybe, if he didn’t think about them, it wouldn’t come true. It just couldn’t be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @catearphanatic made a fantastic illustration for this chapter:
> 
> https://www.instagram.com/p/B4QZcZ6njiv/?igshid=1opzihq3h7dhz
> 
> Check out her awesome art on Instagram and Tumblr!


	2. Never Trust a Demon

**Never trust a demon. He has a hundred motives for anything he does... Ninety-nine of them, at least, are malevolent.**

  
**~ Neil Gaiman, _Preludes & Nocturnes_ (Sandman Vol.1)**

**153 BC, Northern Celtiberia / 163 BC, Rome**

Aristaeus Zephyrus Felix usually hated crossing long distances on horseback because they made his back sore, especially when the ground was rocky and bumpy like these mountain tracks. But on this particular day he didn’t even think to complain about it because his head was full of other thoughts. Anthony would have found that funny. He would have made a comment about how he would have thought it _inconceivable_ that Aristaeus, who disliked everything that separated him from his scrolls but especially uncomfortable transport methods, would actually shut up about it even for one day. But Anthony wasn’t here with him to complain about the design flaws of equines, and it was his fault in the first place that Aristaeus had been riding with the cavalry all day, every day for the past two months, as their legion made their way from Rome to Celtiberia. He flinched slightly at the thought of his best friend. Or the man whom he had thought of as his best friend, anyway. A year had passed since they’d last seen each other, but the thought still hurt and the memories still stung.

When Marcus, the legion legate, called to stop and camp for the night, Aristaeus barely felt the relief of getting off his god-forsaken horse at last. As he mechanically went through the motions of caring for the animal before setting up his tent, his mind took him back to the day when he had seen Anthony for the first time.

That morning before school, his father Gaius had called for him. Aristaeus always felt a little nervous around him; there was something about his father’s grey eyes that never seemed to _see_ him. They always just swept over his face to something else, full of indifference, as if he were not interesting enough to hold their attention. Even the style of Gaius’ sleek toga was probably more important to him than his own son. At the age of ten, Aristaeus had already learned that he was a disappointment to his father. Maybe it was because of his name: he never seemed to measure up to the excellence that his Greek-derived name set out for him.

On that particular day, Gaius did look at his son, albeit with an expression of intense displeasure on his square face. “Aristaeus,” he said when his son entered the study of their villa in Rome.

The boy didn’t like it when Gaius called him by his name. It seemed to emphasise the fact that the name didn’t fit him, and his father always hissed the _s_ in a way that made him want to flinch from the contempt in his voice.

“The senate has decided,” Gaius said, in a tone that made it clear he wasn’t happy about said decision, “to charge me with bringing up a ward.”

Aristaeus’ face must have shown his confusion, because his father sighed and rolled his eyes in a silent prayer to the gods to deliver him from having to explaining politics to his inadequate son. “The son of a Celtic chieftain who was defeated in the last military campaign,” he continued impatiently, “arrived in Rome last night and is to be brought up with you. He will live under this roof and enjoy the same education as you. But let me tell you one thing right now: he is a Barbarian. And no matter what the senate thinks, this savage will never become a civilised man. So see to it that he doesn’t tarnish our reputation by getting into trouble. But don’t spend too much time with him and don’t _fraternise_ with him. He is _beneath_ you.”

Aristaeus nodded in reply, but his father had already mentally dismissed him and didn’t pay attention to him anymore. So the boy left the study quietly and went to have breakfast. There was a huge dining room in the villa, since Gaius was quite a wealthy and influential man, but it was meant for hosting feasts and for Gaius’ personal use. So except on special occasions, his son had to eat in the kitchen with the slaves. Aristaeus didn’t particularly mind, though. The slaves were always kind to him, not least because he wasn’t a spoiled brat, unlike most other boys his age. And the kitchen with its lower ceiling was homelier than the rest of the house, which always felt cold and hostile and empty with its high roof and walls clad in white marble.

When he entered the kitchen, his mind was still occupied. He was too young to realise that the Celtic boy would be a hostage, a guarantee that his tribe didn't rebel against Roman rule. With the added bonus that, growing up, he would be indoctrinated with Roman values, so that one day he could be sent back to the province that his homeland was bound to become, and help spread civilisation among the savages. Aristaeus was simply looking forward to meeting the boy. He had heard so many stories about the grisly things that the enemies of the Roman empire were capable of, but he wasn’t scared, just full of curiosity about this foreign Barbarian and the stories _he_ would tell. It was only when he had sat down at the table the slaves had prepared that he saw the other boy: about his age, spindly, and with hair the colour of copper falling in waves to his shoulders. He looked too small for the dark brown tunic he was wearing.

“ _Salve_ ,” Aristaeus said as a greeting and smiled. “I’m Aristaeus. And you are?” The redhead looked at him without replying, a guarded expression on his face that may have hidden fear, but he didn’t back away.

Then Aristaeus realised that the boy probably didn’t speak Latin. A little clumsily, he pointed at himself and repeated his name, then pointed at the Barbarian to ask for his.

“Arissstaeusss,” the boy echoed, slightly hissing the _s_. Surprised, Aristaeus noticed that he didn’t mind that at all. It sounded so much gentler than when his father said it.

“I am Ciaran,” the answer finally came in broken Latin. Maybe he had picked up some words on the way to Rome. As they started to eat their barley bread, Aristaeus saw Ciaran relax imperceptibly. At one point, the corners of his mouth even tugged upward to form the tiniest of smiles.

Aristaeus had been a child then, naïve and impressionable, but in that precise moment he didn’t have the impression that Ciaran was a savage. A little uncultured maybe, judging from the state of his hair and the strange way he wore his tunic, but not inherently bad.

This impression had strengthened with every day they passed together over the next nine years, even though his father had warned him again and again not to trust the boy with the copper hair and the strange accent, because he would turn around and betray him at the first chance. _Never trust a barbarian._ _He has a hundred motives for anything he does... Ninety-nine of them, at least, are malevolent_.

Aristaeus had laughed at that, willing to take his chances with this particular barbarian. Anthony was his best friend, he’d been so sure of it. But then his conviction had suddenly been shattered about three months ago, less than a year after Anthony had left Rome. How could Aristaeus have been such a fool? As he lay down in his tiny tent and unsuccessfully tried to get comfortable for the night, surrounded by the noises of the military camp, he hated himself for being so gullible even more than he hated his father for being right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter where they're kids, I promise. There will be some flashbacks to their teenage years but mostly they are adults for the rest of the fic.  
> Thanks to everyone for reading! Comments would be really appreciated since this is my first fanfic and I'm still kind of trying to figure it all out.


	3. Strange Trees

**Trees there were, old as trees can be, huge and grasping with hearts black as sin. Strange trees that some said walked in the night.**

**~ Neil Gaiman, _Fables & Reflections_ (Sandman Vol.6)**

**153 BC, Northern Celtiberia**

At dawn, when Aristaeus was woken up by the call of the trumpet, he thought his head would explode. Sleep had evaded him for all but the last hour, and his stomach twisted with worry. The previous day, they had almost reached the other side of the mountain range that separated Gallia from Iberia. With every day that passed, the legion was getting closer to the source of the rebellion they had come to quench. Closer to defeating the Celtiberian savages in battle. Closer to his side opposing Anthony’s.

As he put on his armour, Aristaeus’ absent-mindedly touched his left bicep and the thin band of metal that wound around it. He really couldn’t explain to himself why he had kept it, after all this time, after everything that had happened, considering that he’d be in serious trouble if it was found. When he had first heard the news of Anthony’s treason, it had felt like the metal burned a mark into his arm. As soon as he had been alone in his bedroom, he had clawed at it, trying to alleviate the pain, but had never taken it off. Now, he found the presence of the copper band on his skin oddly soothing. It reminded him not to trust too easily. And there was something else as well, an emotion that was bubbling just beneath the surface of his consciousness. But Aristaeus refused to look it in the eye; he knew it would most likely destroy him.

And there was a lot of pressure weighing on him, many expectations attached to him, and he knew what was _right_ , by Jupiter. Serving the Republic. Obeying his orders. Trying to make his father proud. There was no way he was going to start questioning his loyalty at this precise moment, of all times.

When he stepped out of his tent, he was blinded by the first rays of the garishly bright morning sun. Disorientated, he went to get his share of food for the day when he was intercepted by a messenger with a summons from the legate. With a grumbling stomach that didn’t do anything to lift his mood in the slightest, he made his way across the camp. What he saw surprised him a little: instead of packing everything up and preparing to march on as usual, the soldiers were fortifying the defences that had been built the night before. Grunting noises filled the fresh morning air as some legionaries started digging trenches around the camp, while others left for a near-by wood to cut down trees for a palisade. Did that mean they had reached their destination?

“Felix.” Aristaeus winced a little at hearing his cognomen, his nickname, which seemed to follow him around, no matter how hard he tried to get rid of it. The legate, Marcus, acknowledged his presence with a stern look once Aristaeus had entered the tent of his superior officer and stood to attention. It was larger and more ornate than his own, which was only natural considering their difference in rank. Marcus wasn’t very tall or bulky, but their presence was intimidating nonetheless. Their cold dark eyes seemed to pin Aristaeus down and made him feel as if his every thought was laid bare in front of that dissecting stare. It didn’t really help to know that Marcus was a close colleague of Gaius’ and often spent time at the villa, where Aristaeus couldn’t really avoid him. Both men had always been united in their disdain for him, no matter how hard he tried to do everything that was expected of him.

The young man stood straight, suppressing the urge to fidget and avoid the legate’s stare. He was a soldier of the Roman army now and would act like one, as much as he would have preferred to be back in Rome studying his scrolls.

“I have chosen you for a reconnaissance mission,” Marcus said, “because of your … intimate knowledge of the Celtiberian language and customs. Take a few men and gather as much information about their army and their intentions as you can. And remember: if you happen upon the traitor, kill him. We will make Anthony Cinna regret casting his lot with the enemies, after everything Rome has done for him.”

“But –” Seeing the cold eyes take on a murderous expression, Aristaeus immediately felt that it was a mistake to ask, but he forced the words out of his mouth anyway. “What if we can persuade him to surrender? Surely there’s no _need_ for him to die –”

Marcus cut him off with a wave of their hand. “If he’s stupid enough to give himself up, we will make an example of him. He’ll make a great spectacle in the arena. That will show the other Barbarians what to expect from disobeying and revolting.”

Was there something in Aristaeus’ ears or had the legate just emphasised the word _disobeying_ , as if to say that the threat extended to him, Aristaeus, as well? No, surely he had only imagined it. There was no way he could be suspected of disloyalty, even though the traitor had been his best friend. He was ready to fight and lay down his life for the Republic in a heartbeat, after all!

So he just nodded briefly and left, feeling sick to the stomach. He had entertained the hope that maybe it wasn’t too late for the man whom he had grown up with, that maybe he would have been forgiven despite his transgressions. But Marcus had made it clear that there would be no mercy.

The sun had just risen above the mountains when Aristaeus and his five men left the encampment and headed towards the forest. The camp had been built on a plateau on the outskirts of the Pyrenees, easily defendable and strategically placed since the soldiers would see an enemy approaching from miles away. There was something beautiful and serene about these mountains that had been there since the beginning of the cosmos and would still be there in aeons, if the gods didn’t decide to smite them. Humans, on the other hand…

As the forest swallowed him, Aristaeus prayed to all the gods he knew that he wouldn’t meet Anthony during his mission; he didn’t think he would survive having to confront him under these circumstances.

And yet he couldn’t help feeling strangely glad at the thought.

***

**153 BC, Northern Celtiberia / 163BC, Rome**

The first thing Aristaeus noticed was the silence. He and his soldiers weren’t very far from where some legionnaires had gone to cut down trees for the camp defences, but they could hardly hear the other men. It was as if the forest swallowed all noise; there wasn’t even any birdsong. Their footsteps were also muffled by the soft ground, covered mostly with moss and pine needles, but as one of the men stepped on a dry twig, the crack seemed to echo around the trees that loomed over them, dark and menacing. The second thing was the absence of light. The trees stood so close together that the morning light never reached the ground, blocked by sweeping branches whose needles were of so dark a green that it looked black. The pines and fir trees also seemed to move closer with every step the small group took. There was no path, and they only advanced slowly, having to make their way through thorny thickets and undergrowth. The soldiers stayed close together, feeling as if hostile eyes were watching them from the cover of the trees and the large boulders that were strewn through the forest as if some giants had amused themselves by playing dice with them.

Aristaeus really couldn’t blame his men for their fear. He was starting to feel uneasy himself, with his overactive imagination playing tricks on him. That huge spruce over there with the dark grey lichens on its bark that looked like an old man’s beard, hadn’t it just moved closer? And the yew tree to his right, hadn’t the branches just reached for him? He shook his head and straightened his shoulders. If nothing else, he had to demonstrate bravery for his men. He wondered vaguely how many of the soldiers knew the Celtic stories surrounding woods like this one. The stories of sacred trees, where spirits took up their abode, of strange trees coming alive and walking in the night. The trees felt old, in a way that scared Aristaeus. As if they had been here since the beginning of the Earth. Beings of the primal darkness before the existence of any other creatures, older than the gods even. It felt different from the mountains they had spent the last weeks crossing: the rugged peaks and ravines had been indifferent to the puny humans, whose lifetimes passed in the blink of an eye. This forest, on the other hand, felt as if it was very much aware of their presence, and as if it wasn’t going to take kindly to their disturbance. The Roman army had probably already angered the trees by cutting down some of their number, and Aristaeus began to feel vague dread at the thought of provoking their wrath.

His heart started to race as his nervous glances skittered through the twilight that seemed to become thick and impenetrable. Yet, he kept going and sent a quick prayer to Diana, goddess of the woods, beseeching her to keep him and the other soldiers safe. But that didn’t soothe him: the trees themselves seemed to block his plea, keeping them from reaching the deity.

_Your gods have no power here_ , they seemed to whisper threateningly. Aristaeus swallowed, his throat feeling parched, as he tried to think of the Celtic tales about forests taking revenge on impudent trespassers. But hard as he racked his brain, he couldn’t recall any; maybe it was because Anthony had been the one to tell him those stories, and it still hurt to remember how close they had been, how much of his culture Anthony had shared with him over the years. Some of his language even, a tongue full of sounds that seemed strange to Aristaeus, but he had always loved learning languages, getting his head around their grammar and the way they saw the world. It had been useful as a sort of secret language for them as well, whenever they had wanted to keep something from the other pupils and the teacher. But whenever Gaius had heard them use it, he had beat Anthony senseless, yelling at him that there was no place for his barbarity in Rome. However, instead of deterring him, that had made Aristaeus even more determined to master the language because he had felt how important it was to his friend. How it reminded Anthony of home.

Or should he be thinking about him as _Ciaran_ instead of _Anthony_ again (he should stop thinking about him altogether, he thought, but knew that wouldn’t happen)? Considering that he had chosen Celtiberia over Rome, that he had probably never seen Rome as a home? And why should he have, Aristaeus thought bitterly, considering that nobody had ever treated him as if he belonged? It had been a blow, he knew, when Gaius had forbidden Ciaran to use his Celtic name and had just picked a Latin one at random. Aristaeus had taken a liking to it, and he had hoped that Anthony had too, eventually. But it hadn’t been as if his Latin name had helped him to fit in in any way that mattered. The other pupils had still called him names behind his back, or even to his face sometimes. Usually something incredibly creative like _serpent_ , because of the snake-like way he hissed the _s_. And because of the black snake tattoo on his right cheek, the symbol of his tribe. Aristaeus hadn’t noticed it that first morning when they had clumsily introduced themselves to each other, because it had been hidden behind Anthony’s copper curls. He had only seen it when Gaius had had one of the slaves cut his hair short, as it befits a Roman boy. And that time, Aristaeus had been more preoccupied by the expression in Anthony’s eyes. Or rather, the lack thereof, that dull, dead gaze…

_Wait, what was that?_ He was ripped out of his memories in an instant as he caught a sudden movement from the corner of his eye and whirled around. But it was too late.

Pain exploded in the side of his head, and everything went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks, as always, to catearphanatic for beta-ing!


	4. Hell

**I think hell is something you carry around with you. Not somewhere you go.**

**~ Neil Gaiman, _Season of Mists_ (Sandman Vol.4)**

**153 BC, Northern Celtiberia**

Sleep wouldn’t come to him this night, that much he knew. Ciaran buried his face in his hands, glad that nobody could see him in the dark. He felt sure that Brandubh would see it as a sign of weakness. As his father’s sibling, they had taken over as clan leader after Fearghas’ death. Ciaran had heard about that on the day of his return, but it seemed unreal to him, even though it hardly came as a surprise. He could still feel the weight of his father’s hands on his shoulders, could see the fierce look in his eyes. How could he be dead? Ciaran didn’t even have a place to mourn; nobody had answered his questions about where his father’s burial mound was. But Brandubh wouldn’t have allowed him time to mourn anyway. For the first few days, they had been too busy showing him around the new fortifications of the village as well as all the weapons that had been made in secret, hidden from the Roman occupiers.

“What is all this?” Ciaran had asked, knowing full well what he saw.

“Preparation for the rebellion, of course,” Brandubh had answered and given him a strange look. “Haven’t you seen the state our clan is in? The Romans have taken away our freedom, slain countless men and sent even more into slavery. We will not take this anymore.” Their short black hair, unkempt as always, bristled with barely suppressed rage.

Despite their small and unimposing stature, he had always feared Brandubh as a child. Not any more. It hadn’t been out of fear that Ciaran hadn’t met their eyes when answering. “Of course,” he had said, feeling empty inside. Earlier, he had seen that the village children resembled bare-boned skeletons more than humans, and it had made his blood boil with anger. Obviously, it hadn’t really surprised him to learn that the Roman praetor in charge of the Celtiberian province ruthlessly exploited the clans in order to accumulate wealth, he knew that the Romans thought themselves better than everybody else. They didn’t care that the children would die first.

_Kids. You can’t kill kids!_

So it wasn’t that he didn’t agree with Brandubh. But this would change everything, destroy his every chance of ever going back to Rome and seeing Aristaeus again.

“A rebellion is the only way to free ourselves from the oppressors,” Brandubh had said, probably feeling Ciaran’s reluctance.

“Sure, yeah.” Ciaran knew that was true. But he also knew how hard it would be to defeat them.

“That’s why we need you,” Brandubh had pressed on. “You have lived in Rome, you know their military strength and organisation. You will be the key to our success.” Their tone of voice had left no room for contradiction, but Ciaran wouldn’t have disagreed anyway. This was his family, his home. If there was any chance of success, he would help them. Despite the weight of reproachful blue eyes he seemed to feel on him. Without his help, everyone in the clan would end up dead or enslaved, the towns and villages burned to the ground.

So he had chosen a weapon (a beautiful dagger whose hilt looked like the head of a snake) and followed his father’s sibling to a meeting with leaders of other clans, to forge alliances and prepare to strike. Within a week, they had attacked the Roman soldiers stationed near the village and killed most of them, caught totally off-guard. Ciaran himself had stayed slightly behind and steered clear of the slaughter, disgusted. Disgusted by all the needless killing but also by himself, because his knowledge of the Roman camp had enabled them to raid it in the first place. Yet he hadn’t been able to look away, he had just watched all the death and destruction, knowing that it was his fault. If he had believed in the idea of Tartarus, the deepest part of the Underworld where souls were tortured and punished forever, this is what he expected it would be like. But he had stopped believing in an afterlife or the gods, be they Celtic or Roman, years earlier. Instead, he was beginning to think that hell was something you carried around with you while you were alive. Not somewhere you went after death.

After the raid on the camp, the Romans had been warned, and Ciaran was sure that a messenger had been sent to Rome to ask for reinforcements.

That had been months ago; now they were in a constant state of vigilance that was wearing Ciaran out. Any day now they expected the attack of the Roman legion they had observed from afar. Any day now, they would see if months of preparation would be enough. He tossed and turned, feeling completely exhausted and yet not tired enough to fall asleep. It was the thought of Aristaeus that kept him awake. Countless times he had imagined the messenger arriving in Rome, informing the senate about the rebellion. Had Gaius been gleeful when he told his son that Ciaran had reverted to his barbaric ways? That Ciaran, who had been brought up in Rome to be an ambassador of civilisation and to foster peace between Romans and Celtiberians, had joined the rebellion at the first chance, betraying all the trust put in him? Had Aristaeus’ blue eyes at first shone with anger at the news, or just with disappointment? Maybe he had also felt disgust at the thought of Ciaran, as much even as Ciaran himself had felt when he realised he was responsible for the slaughter of the Roman soldiers. Maybe Aristaeus had turned around and decided to forget him because he was not worth thinking about any more.

Ciaran pressed his palms to his eyes, trying to banish that image from his mind. It felt too much like an iron fist crushing his heart.

_I betrayed Rome, Aeris, but never you. Never you._

He turned onto his back, staring open-eyed into the darkness and feeling wretched. It had been the right choice to join the rebellion, and, for all the guilt he felt, he wouldn’t change that if given the chance. He would have to live with that. But he wished he could explain it to Aristaeus, who with all his bookish cleverness wouldn’t understand this decision because he valued loyalty to Rome above all else, refusing to see the cruelty of the powerful even though he had suffered at their hands himself. Really, how could someone as clever as him be so stupid?

Finally, he got up and left the house. No use trying to chase sleep. Outside, he stared up at the night sky and tried to make out the stars. He had always loved watching them at night, trying to count how many there were and hearing stories about every single one of them. But there were small fires everywhere around the city, where warriors held watch at night to keep the city safe. The flickering brightness made it hard to see the stars, but the sky was overcast anyway.

If he could only talk to Aristaeus, just once… But given the circumstances, he was almost glad that he would likely never see him again. It meant that Aristaeus was nowhere near him and therefore in no danger of getting caught up in this ugly situation. At least the man Ciaran loved was safe.


End file.
